Saturday I ran another half-marathon. My time was 1:50:40, a full five minutes faster than February.
But it wasn’t easy. Whereas in February I felt I still had a little gas in the tank at the end, this time I was running on fumes. My calves were knotting up as I slouched toward the finish, but finish I did. Of course, this morning I can barely move, but that’s the price a 45-year-old must pay for such “glory.”
I can remember several times thinking about how hard it was and about how it would be nice just to stop and hang it up and start acting my age. But you see, I couldn’t; I was wearing Hokie orange. And on that particular day, considering how so many were hurting so much more than me, there could be no quitting.
I have unfinished business–breaking four hours in the marathon. I plan to attempt that before the year’s out, and when I do, I’ll be wearing maroon and orange.
I know there are some out there who think that’s a little, well, “hokey.”
Deal with it.